My Missed Date With Obama

A week ago Mike and I were having dinner with my dad and his wife, and we got to talking, for a change, about politics. I told them all about my recent phonebanking activities, we traded impressions on Sarah Palin, blah blah blah. Then my stepmother said, “you know, your dad was thinking of going to a fundraiser for Obama next week — it’s a big one, quite the gala event. I can’t go with him…maybe you’d like to?”

Like to? Fucking A! I leapt at the offer. How could I not? For one thing, I never get invited to fundraisers. This is perhaps because I have so few funds. So to go to one on someone else’s dime, one that I could never afford to attend on my own, how fun would that be? Secondly, who can resist a gala anything? It’s just a good word, “gala” — making you think of black velvet and silver trays and high-heeled shoes and stuffed mushrooms and glittery earrings and…I don’t know. I just don’t get to do too much gala stuff. In fact, if there were an antonym to gala — I’m sure there is, but I have no idea what it is — that would be my life. “Welcome to another UN-gala event at the Goldbrick household! Take off your shoes and have a glass of… water!” Anyway, then there’s the fact that my dad and I don’t get to do too much stuff together, and virtually never one-on-one. So the idea of this gala, luxey date night with dad is just…sweet!

On top of all of this, of course, the most obvious lure: the opportunity to meet, maybe, the man himself, Mr. O. How fucking thrilling would that be? Not to mention all of his glamo Hollywood supporters. Steven Spielberg! Barbra Streisand! George Clooney — or is he a Republican? Possibly — all the super good looking ones are. Well, regardless. It promises to be an evening of headspinning celebrity.

My dad buys the tickets — I imagine them being a gazillion dollars apiece — and I begin to obsess about what to wear. This is a bigger problem for me than for most girls, as I seriously do not like to shop, am fairly indifferent to fashion, and own nothing appropriate for a black tie event. This has been the case for my entire adult life, and believe me, it’s a problem. Many years ago, upon realizing at the last minute that I had nothing to wear to a fancy screening of a family member’s film, I went to a meeting in tears, shared about my utter sartorial ineptness, and ended up being rescued by a trio of crossdressing gays who took me to their home in West Hollywood, dressed me in a gold lame gown, and teased my hair into an I-Dream-Of-Jeannie sort of bob. After they’d completed their work with a makeup job worthy of “La Cage Aux Folles,” I attended the screening, looking like Dustin Hoffman in “Tootsie.” There are still pictures of that night. I have tried to burn each one, but there were so many cameras…

Anyway, suffice it to say that dressing for a gala brings up the same kind of anxiety and haplessness in me that some men feel at, say, buying jewelry for their wives. My response to this feeling is much the same: I wait ’til the last minute, realize I’ve fucked myself, then freak out. This precipitates all sorts of unpleasant, last-minutes crises: the dress I am assuming will “be fine” is ripped at the seam and can’t be worn. I have no shoes that match my outfit, and end up looking like Bjork at the Oscars, garbed in one glaringly inappropriate accessory. I have no bra that goes under the top I want to wear, so end up using bandaids on my nipples. This kind of thing. It’s a horror show. I would like nothing better than to put myself in the hands of a skilled assistant, someone with taste, knowhow, and a fat wallet, but said assistant — aside from my Birdcage Trio — has never presented themselves. And so I attend most dressy events wearing something that is either inappropriate, ripped, or too casual. In the winters I am freezing, in the summer I show up in wool. In short, it’s nearly always a disaster.

Three days before the gala I am driving to work, pondering these complexities and scheming on how to prevent a recurrence. This time will be different, I tell myself. I will get my hair done at a salon. I will go to Bloomingdales and get a saleslady to put some makeup on me. I will buy a new outfit, and give it a test run the night before. I will leave myself plenty of time to get ready. That is, if I’m not working that day. Am I working that day?

And then it hits me. Hits me like a ton of gala, glamo, diamond-studded bricks. Not only am I working that day, I am working that night. It is the once-a-year inventory at my stupid *%&^$# shopgirl piece-of-crap job. The thing they tell us about 2 months in advance so we can’t plead lack of notice. The thing that we are mandated to attend. The thing that starts at 4 PM and runs, generally, until midnight. The thing that, failing death, diseased, or dismemberment, I cannot miss. Unless I am prepared to be fired.

I skid to a halt at a sudden red light and stare at the steering wheel in front of me. Make it not true, make it not true, I beg. The wheel stares back balefully, all leather and lack of concern. “You cannot attend,” it says. “Green light.”

I call my step-mother and deliver the heartbreaking news. I tell her I am devastated, destroyed, that I have been literally banging my head on the steering wheel in my car. This last part is not strictly true, but it should be, and I want her to know just how dissappointed I actually am. She is very kind about it, tells me not to worry, that my dad will understand.

“But the tickets…the gazillion dollars…”

“He’ll find someone else to take.,” she replies, reassuringly.

This is not reassuring. This is not comforting. Someone else in my seat! Someone else shaking Barack’s hand while I count heart tag bracelets in plastic bins cups! Someone else meeting George Clooney or his less attractive counterpart while I team up with leering Bob from customer service. Someone else eating stuffed mushrooms while I shovel mushroom pizza on a fifteen minute break…!

Later I find out that my brother will be attending in my stead.

The gala, and my inventory, are tonight. I leave for work in a few minutes, armed with a pair of jeans and cardigan to change into when we close the shop, curl up on the floor in our respective counting areas, and begin our task of utter mundanity and irrelevance. I have told Mike to expect me late, as no one is allowed to leave until the whole store, and all gazillion jewelry pieces, are counted. It is almost too bitter a pill to swallow, that I will finish just as J and dad say goodnight to Barack, Hillary, and Bruce Springsteen, climb into their valet-delivered car, and drive home.

“what a great night!” J will say.

“Historical.” my dad will assent.

“Too bad Goldbrick couldn’t have been here,” my brother will conclude, shaking his head. “She would’ve loved it.”

“She would’ve. Should we call her?”

They’ll look at each other. “Nah. She’s probably still at work.”

And, gift bags in hand, they’ll speed off to their respective homes, to tell all they know of the magical night they just had.